Beneath The Full Moon

 Come, I will sing it in your ear: 
 Your dancing days are come. 
 All the feeling you hold dear 
 Will lift your spirit some; 
 Dance until the rosey dawn 
 All in a gay, glad rag. 
      I carry the Sun in a golden cup, 
      The Moon in a silver bag. 
  
 And I will sing you merrily 
 Into my ring of dooms, 
 And I will twine into your hair 
 A wreath of maiden blooms. 
 You'll turn, when dancing days wane low 
 To Crone, but not to Hag. 
      I carry the Sun in a golden cup, 
      The Moon in a silver bag. 
  
 As Maiden grows to Mother, 
 And Mother into Crone, 
 Dance, My darling daughter, 
 Beneath My rounded Moon. 
 Dance in argent splendor 
 Until your spirits flag. 
      I carry the Sun in a golden cup, 
      The Moon in a silver bag. 
  
    --Copyright (c) 1988 by Sourdough Jackson